The O Sweet Revenge Affair
by Dancing April
Summary: Illya becomes the scapegoat in a beautiful British THRUSH operative's diabolical plan for revenge against Solo
1. Prologue

Hello Everyone! I thought I'd join in with some MFU fanfic for fun as well! You'll notice that I tend to focus on adorable Illya...but I certainly love sexy Napoleon Solo and the other regular characters as well. And although I don't write slash (no judgments, tho) I have long-recognized from watching the original series the special bond, or *bromance* relationship, between the two main male characters, and that I do often reflect in my stories.

 **Rated *T* for some violence, mild language, adult content, and mention of male nudity (but no erotica) - This story is not suitable for younger readers**

 **Category: Drama, Suspense, some Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort**

Author's Added Notes: _**The. story's "O Sweet Revenge" Title Quote is from**_ _ **Titus Andronicus,**_ _ **one of**_ _ **Shakespeare's**_ _ **earliest revenge plays. All Chapter Quotes are also taken from his various works.**_

For those who might not know or remember, U.N.C.L.E. stands for the **Untied Network Command for Law and Enforcement**.

What about **THRUSH**? According to IMDB, in the 60s TV series THRUSH was only referred to by that name. However, in one of the Ace paperbacks released about the series, THRUSH was said to stand for the **Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity**. Sure sounds diabolical!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Man From U.N.C.L.E. series, images, or its original characters. This story is intended to be read and (hopefully) enjoyed solely as a work of fanfiction and is dedicated to the talented actors who portrayed these beloved characters in the two original 1960s television series—Robert Vaughn, David McCallum, Leo G. Carroll, Stefanie Powers, Noel Harrison

* * *

 ** _Tagline: Illya becomes the scapegoat in a beautiful British THRUSH operative's diabolical plan for revenge against Solo._**

This story features Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, with appearances by Alexander Waverly, April Dancer, and Mark Slate.

* * *

 **Prologue**

"Shall I be **_revenged_** on him? for revenged I will be!" ( _Merry Wives of Windsor_ )

* * *

 ****Somewhere On An Estate In Warwickshire, England*****

Illya Kuryakin hung from rusty iron wrist shackles affixed to the slimy ceiling of a dank cell that smelled of rot and mold. He was bare-chested and his upper body, front and back, was slashed and bloody. His lips were swollen and bleeding as well, and his left cheekbone sported dark bruising and a raw cut from where the woman's short whip had struck him just before she mercilessly flogged him into unconsciousness. She'd had the riding quirt altered by adding a few tiny studs so it would inflict the most painful type of damage to her victim.

Breathing hard she ceased the whipping and moved back away from him now that her rage was momentarily spent. The bloody quirt with its short braided leather lash now hung loosely in her right hand at her side.

"Lady Ashley…?" a hushed male voice spoke with hesitation from behind her.

Without turning or taking her eyes off the blond man dangling limply in front of her, the woman bit out, "I've not finished, Dawson! What is it?"

The gaunt servant's bulbous hazel eyes glanced past her to the insensible Illya as he replied in a respectful tone, "Your guests have begun arriving for dinner, Milady, and are asking for you."

At his words she irritably snapped the quirt against her thigh and said in a chill tone, "Bloody damn! I forgot about them." Now looking over her shoulder at her butler she said, "Oh, very well then. I'll be up shortly. Tell my guests I've been out riding and will join them as soon as I shower and dress. In the meantime, see to their comfort."

Knowing he'd been dismissed, Dawson nodded and hurriedly left the dungeon, glad to be out of that dreadful place and away from the presence of his mistress when she was in one of her "dark moods". He had no idea who the unfortunate young man was who'd incurred her wrath, but he knew better than to ask or to question her actions.

After he'd gone the woman tossed the whip onto the floor and moved closer to her captive again. Her dark eyes roamed over his body, assessing the damage she'd done to the fair flesh; then she stared up at his pale closed face.

"Not so flawless anymore, my sweet…." she murmured as she stroked his damaged cheek.

She picked up a pair of silver shears which had been laying on the floor atop the remnants of Illya's white turtleneck sweater and reached up and snipped off a thick cluster of his long flaxen hair. This she pressed against oozing wounds on his torso, saturating the hair sample with blood. When she finished collecting the macabre souvenir she wrapped it in a linen handkerchief and then tucked that carefully away back into her jacket pocket.

Cognizant that she had to go and prepare to greet her guests, she rose up on her tiptoes and pressed a hard kiss to the unconscious young U.N.C.L.E. agent's swollen, unresponsive mouth, savoring the taste of his blood on her tongue.

With an elated sense of satisfaction she settled back on her heels and put a hand up to brush the fringe of golden bangs away from his closed eyes, murmuring, "There, that's better. I'll be back after my guests leave, and then we'll play some more." With that she turned away and left the cell.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

"O Illya, Illya, **wherefore art thou,** Illya?" (paraphrasing from _Romeo and Juliet_ )

* * *

Napoleon Solo glanced at his watch again, wondering what was keeping Illya. It was after 5:30 p.m. and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents had agreed to meet for early drinks at _The Happening—_ one of Illya's favorite Soho hangouts in London's West End—to celebrate winding up their current overseas assignment before returning to the States the next day.

Solo had spent his free Saturday afternoon killing time in London's upscale shopping districts while Illya had taken himself off to explore some of Carnaby Street's more youth-oriented "mod" fashion stalls and a few obscure bookstores he was familiar with from previous visits to that area of Soho.

"Need a refill, Gov?" a young Cockney waiter with jet black hair tied back in a pony asked him, reaching to take Solo's empty glass.

The agent looked up at him and flashed a quick smile. "Yes, thanks," he nodded.

As the waiter moved away Solo's gaze swept the crowded pub. He'd arrived early to secure a table for himself and Illya, and already a line was forming outside of young people eager to get into the trendy watering hole when space permitted. A cover band consisting of four young men sporting the popular longish bow-shaped haircuts and clad in black leather jackets, dark sweaters and pants was doing a respectable cover version of "Ferry Across the Mersey". Their lead singer, a blond youngster with a slight build, fair skin, and bright blue eyes made him think of his partner, and once more the agent checked his watch. The usually punctual Illya was over 40 minutes late.

 _More than likely he has just lost track of the time and is happily preoccupied in a book shop_ , Solo told himself.

The waiter returned with his refill and Napoleon paid him, adding, "Keep an eye on my table, will you? I need to use the men's room." The waiter nodded and the U.N.C.L.E. agent rose and made his way through the crowded tables toward an alcove that led to the restroom facilities.

Two pretty girls, one a brunette and the other a redhead, were standing by the entrance to the women's "loo" waiting their turn. Their eyes lit up when they saw the 35-year-old dark-haired and strikingly handsome Solo as he approached. By his confident manner and walk and the style of his expensive tailored grey suit, they could tell this one had money to spend—and hopefully on them.

"Hellooooo, Luv. Lost your way?" the redhead cooed at him while her friend added, "Can we be of any….special help?" The look she gave Solo was provocative and the agent understood immediately that he need not necessarily return to his hotel room alone that night.

Both girls were sporting shoulder-length teased hair, skin tight miniskirts, and knee-high white "Go-Go" boots so popular at the moment, and Solo raised an eyebrow and flashed them his most charming smile which never failed to send female hearts a-fluttering.

"I appreciate the offer, but for the moment I have things well in hand. But when I come out…perhaps you young ladies might join my friend and I for drinks...and then later show us more of how London swings at night."

Thinking his velvety-smooth American-accented voice was as sexy as he was, the young women giggled at his subtle meaning, and the brunette asked suggestively, looking Solo up and down, "Is your friend as smashing as you, Luv?"

Solo smiled again. "Ah, well, thank you for the compliment. As far as my friend goes, I've observed he has a certain appeal for the ladies...so if either of you might like the boyish-looking fair-haired and blue-eyed type who has an intriguing Russian accent, I don't think you'll be disappointed."

The girls exchanged excited glances and nodded at Solo with bright smiles. "I adore blond men. Your friend sounds smashing as well!" the redhead assured him.

Solo's own grin broadened, especially as he envisioned Illya's reaction when he arrived and found he had an eager blind date and potential overnight companion awaiting him.

"Meet you back out here in just a few…." the agent promised, entering the men's single stall restroom and locking the door behind him. He then quickly pulled out his communicator and opened a channel, calling to Illya several times in low tones—but the connection remained steady….and eerily silent,

A sudden wave of unease washed over Solo and he adjusted the communicator to change channels so he could contact the London offices of U.N.C.L.E. The communications officer who answered his call told him that they'd not heard from Illya since ha and Solo left their headquarters earlier that morning.

"Put me through to Waverly," Solo said, ignoring the sharp knock on the restroom door and a man's muffled voice saying, "Can you get a move on in there, Mate?"

Almost immediately Alexander Waverly's more cultured voice came through the communicator.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Solo?" he asked, suspecting that the agent would not be calling unless there likely was. Solo had already notified his U.N.C.L.E. chief that morning that he and Illya had completed the assignment and were returning to New York the next day.

"Well, Sir, I can't reach Illya and no one over here has heard from him since this morning. I was hoping that perhaps you might have some idea of where he is," he replied in a lowered voice as another impatient knock sounded on the door.

"No, Mr. Solo. He's made no contact with us. What is that noise? Where are you?"

"Sorry, Sir, but I'm locked in a men's room. I have to sign off now but I will get back to you later," he replied hurriedly, closing the connection and replacing the pen-shaped communicator in his pocket.

He stepped to the door, unlocked and opened it and found himself facing an annoyed pub patron who towered a good half-head above him. It was apparent the man had had a few drinks and the last thing Solo wanted now was an altercation.

He straightened his blue silk tie and grinned ingratiatingly up at the other man as he stepped smoothly around him. "It's all yours. Sorry about that, my friend. But when you've got to go, you've got to go…."

Solo found the two girls now waiting for him just outside the alcove and he briskly told them, "Ladies, I've received an urgent call that I'm needed on a business matter. Please forgive me for canceling our date. Perhaps another time?" He pulled out his wallet. "The least I can do is buy you lovelies dinner and drinks," he said, pressing a hundred dollar bill into the brunette's palm. With that he flashed them another charming smile and then hurriedly made his way back toward his table.

The brunette stared at the unexpected wealth now clutched in her hand, and her equally dumbfounded friend asked, "Is there a telly-phone in the men's loo?"

As Solo dropped a tip on his table for the waiter he saw that a sealed note card had been left propped against his drink. His name was boldly printed on it, so there was no doubt it was meant for him. Frowning, he picked it up and casually slipped it into his jacket pocket, suspecting he might be under observation by whoever had left the note. His agent's instincts told him the message inside boded no good and he did not want to read it in public.

Without looking around he made his way through the crowd and left the pub, hailing a cab just outside. The address he gave the driver was the cover facade for London U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

* * *

"Please read the note again, Mr. Solo," his New York-based Section Chief, Alexander Waverly, intoned solemnly from the console viewing screen in London U.N.C.L.E.'s sophisticated Communications Center. Live video conferencing capabilities of this nature was an advanced technology that would not be made known or available to the general public for decades.

Napoleon stared back down at the white note card he held in his hand, upon which was written two ominous lines.

" _You stole something of mine. Now I've stolen something of yours_ ," he read aloud for the second time, his brow furrowed in concentration as to its meaning and author.

"So you believe it possible that the lock of blond hair that came with the message is Mr. Kuryakin's?" Waverly commented somberly.

"Yes, Sir," Solo replied grim-faced. "The lab here is verifying that now. "

There was a short silence as neither man spoke, each thinking about the cryptic note, the sample of blond hair, and what it all could mean, especially in regard to the missing Kuryakin.

Finally Solo said worriedly: "It's pretty apparent that someone has abducted Illya in retaliation for something they believe I stole, or took, from them."

"But stole what, Mr. Solo? Have you any ideas?"

"Not as yet, Sir. But Illya and I have a lot of enemies. It comes with the territory, as you know."

Waverly could not disagree with that. Theirs was a dangerous—and potentially deadly—profession. "The handwriting in the note….is it familiar at all?" he asked.

Solo shook his head and pursed his lips, staring at the card in his hand again. "No, not really, other than that the script looks more feminine than masculine. But I can't be sure. Before I contacted you, Sir, I had the lab here quickly check it over. Whoever sent it was careful not to leave fingerprints."

On the overseas video minitor Solo saw Waverly's shaggy eyebrows furrow in thought. "At least we can have our handwriting experts there examine the writing. If they can identify the gender, perhaps that might help narrow the focus."

"Well, the words in the note certainly indicate that whoever has Illya is an enemy of mine more than his, and there's little doubt some sort of vendetta is the motive."

"With Mr. Kuryakin apparently chosen to pay the price of that vendetta," his Section Chief agreed. "What's your next course of action?"

"Obviously stay on here in London and make myself more visible in case whoever sent this tries to contact me again. I have a gut feeling I'm being played with, Sir, and there will be another communication in some form.

"I agree. Very well, Mr. Solo, keep me apprised of any new developments."

"Of course, Sir."

After Waverly had ended the video conference Napoleon sat back in the console chair, rubbing his fingertips along his temples to ease the tension building there.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"I will have **such revenge** on **you both** " ( _King Lear_ )

* * *

Lady Barbara Ashley surveyed her dinner guests with a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. At her table were seated ten of THRUSH's highest-ranking leaders from all parts of the British Isles.

If only they knew that beneath their feet, deep under her manor house and down in the oldest part of the original dungeon, she held captive the notorious Illya Kuryakin. What none of these other men and women had not been able to do she had accomplished—snatching the legendary blond agent right from under the noses of London U.N.C.L.E. and Kuryakin's equally infamous partner, Napoleon Solo.

She marveled that it had been so relatively easy once she had learned that Solo and Kuryakin were in London. For a long time she'd formulated a plan to abduct Illya and had studied his strengths and weaknesses in order to succeed with her plan. She had discovered that he was a brilliant academic and self-entertaining loner who had a weakness for old and rare books; and she'd set a trap for him accordingly.

Lady Ashley delicately picked at her brandied peaches as she pretended to listen politely to the conversation swirling around her elaborate dinner table. But her thoughts did not dwell long on Kuryakin, but turned to Napoleon Solo, the true object of her disaffection.

By now she knew that the devastatingly handsome and charming U.N.C.L.E. agent—whom she'd had under surveillance since she'd learned he was in London—would have received her first message. And he would now know that his missing partner had fallen into the hands of an enemy….a most deadly enemy, she thought gleefully, determined to brutalize his younger counterpart to suit her own purposes.

Handing Illya Kuryakin over to THRUSH officials would have brought her many rewards, but she already had all the power, money and position she needed. But what she didn't have, at least not yet, was the pure malicious joy of bringing Napoleon Solo to his knees.

Long ago she'd discovered that Kuryakin meant more to Solo than anyone else in this life—but not in a sexual sense because she knew first hand that Solo unequivocally enjoyed women (as did Kuryakin, although far less frequently than his more suave partner). The two men were close because they shared a unique and rare friendship and professional rapport despite the danger of their work.

At first she had not understood that bond since as U.N.C.L.E. agents they were trained to remain detached, especially in the event a partner was captured or killed while on a mission. But she had discovered that despite their training and the fact that Solo and Kuryakin were polar opposites in appearance, personality, and personal styles, when they worked together they became two halves of the same whole and a force to be reckoned with, which is why they were so respected and feared by the THRUSH hierarchy.

She had come to deeply hate Illya Kuryakin for his influence and presence in Solo's life as much as she now hated Napoleon Solo for being so emotionally detached about anyone or anything except when it came to the Russian. She now knew the two men would give their lives not only for their jobs but also for one another if such a sacrifice was necessary. And subsequently she had found out the hard way that women were expendable to Napoleon Solo—but Illya Kuryakin wasn't.

And so she had set out to punish the daring and debonair Solo by striking at his Achilles Heel and taking away the one thing he valued the most in this world, which was his professional partner and best friend. And she would do it in a way that would emotionally cripple Napoleon Solo forever.

It had taken her nearly two years to put her plan into motion, but now she finally had both U.N.C.L.E. agents at her mercy, and that was indeed a cause for celebration.

Barbara Ashley picked up her wine glass and called out to her guests, "Madames, Messieurs, I give you a toast to friendship!" She saw their polite but puzzled looks at her odd toast as they quit talking and obediently raised their own wine glasses. "Oh, yes, I am blessed indeed to find myself in the rare company of true friendship," she smiled facetiously. "Thank you, everyone, for being here tonight and gracing my home with your presence."

* * *

Down in the dungeon Illya Kuryakin stirred back to consciousness. He groaned as his awakening brought to him awareness of the painful damage inflicted upon his body. His arms, stretched above his head for hours now and supporting his dead weight when he'd been unconscious, had gone numb and his shoulder sockets ached unbearably. However, the worst was the fiery, burning stings all over his torso from the severe lashing he'd suffered. He felt nauseated and parched, and could taste his own blood both in his mouth and when he licked his swollen lips.

The slim agent had no idea what time it was or how long he'd been unconscious. He was in total darkness and all he could hear were occasional plops of dripping water and what might have been the scurrying feet of a rodent or animal of some kind.

He tried to force himself to clear his confused thoughts and stay awake by recalling the events that led up to his capture. If he could focus long enough he might be able to think of a way to get out of this dire situation.

He remembered leaving one of the Carnaby Street bookstores knowing he still had about another hour and a half to kill before he needed to meet up with Napoleon as they'd arranged. He had just started down the street toward another shop he wanted to explore when an elderly woman approached him and asked him if he'd have a moment to help her carry some parcels up two flight of stairs to her flat. She had explained that she wasn't feeling well and had hoped a nice young man would come along to aid her.

The Russian did not hesitate to offer his services, taking her packages in his arms and following her to a three-storey brownstone structure nearby.

They'd just entered into the dingy hallway of the building when the old woman turned, held up her handbag, and shot Illya with a dart from the small tranquilizer gun concealed in the purse. The missile struck him in the chest and the young Russian was barely able to register what she'd done and that he'd been tricked before collapsing in an unconscious sprawl onto the dirty black-and-white tiled floor.

Because he was out cold Illya was unaware of the two men, one quite large, the other short and stocky, who emerged from a room just off the foyer carrying a large brown carpet. They unrolled the rug next to the Russian and lifted and laid him in the center of it, then secured his wrists, ankles and mouth with electrical tape. The short man deftly removed the blond agent's communicator along with the U.N.C.L.E. Special hidden in the shoulder holster tucked under his jacket, then the two of them wrapped the sides of the large rug around their unconscious captive.

The old woman opened the front door to the building and stepped aside as the men hefted up the rolled carpet and carried it out and loaded it into the back of an unmarked van parked at the curb.

The next thing Illya recalled was awaking with a pounding headache to find himself hanging painfully by his wrists in a dimly-lit musty cell in what appeared to be part of an ancient cellar or dungeon. His mouth was taped and he also discovered that his ankles were shackled to iron rungs embedded in the stone floor beneath him, no doubt intended to keep him from kicking out at his captors. In addition his wristwatch, U.N.C.L.E. Special, and communicator, as well as his black leather jacket, socks and shoes, had been removed, leaving him clad only in his white turtleneck sweater and slacks. He could see the jacket, shoes and socks lying discarded in a corner of the cell, but the other items were not in sight.

Looking upward at the rusted manacles locked around his aching wrists he thought with dark Russian humor that he was glad he was up to date on his tetanus shot.

While he was puzzling over why he'd been abducted and by whom, footsteps coming down the narrow corridor outside his prison caught his attention. There was no door on the cell, and he was surprised that the newcomers who stepped through the opening weren't burly armed guards but rather a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties followed by a short balding man around 50 who was carrying a small brown leather case. Both were strangers to him, and the woman looked aristocratic while the man was obviously in her employ.

Illya noted that she was dressed as if she'd been out riding on horseback, and in her hand she carried a small riding whip.

The woman smiled when she saw him staring at her, noting his surprise and confusion, and when she approached him she spoke as if she certainly knew who he was.

"Hello, Illya dear. So nice to finally meet you at last. It's good to see you awake as you've been insensible for the past few hours and now we can chat and get to know each other better." Her voice and manner were cultured and he could tell that her tailored riding outfit was expensive; in fact, everything about her indicated wealth and breeding.

Eyeing him up and down she observed, "I must say you look even younger in person, and certainly not very formidable with your charming boyish looks, slim build, and fair coloring. How interesting. No one would ever take you for what you really are. But I am sure that has often worked in your favor as an U.N.C.L.E. agent." She had thoroughly studied his dossier with THRUSH and knew that the 30-year-old Kuryakin was a master of disguise. And now that she was seeing him in person she could better understand how the youthful-looking agent had easily gone undercover as a 20-something college student more than once to thwart THRUSH.

Although the 5'8" tall Illya was suspended a little above the damp floor, the woman was close to eye level with him and he realized she must be tall even without heels. Her hair was light blond like his, but her complexion was more olive toned and her eyes were dark brown, almost black in the dim overhead light; and he suspected she colored her hair to hide its natural shade. Seeing her up close he also realized that she was older than he first thought, perhaps early 40s, but her artful application of makeup helped soften and you then her face.

She reached up and peeled the electrical tape away from his mouth, taking her time and amused when he winced. "We can't chat with that on, can we?" she said. "And I'm sure you must have some questions, such as….why are you hanging about in a stranger's drafty old dungeon?"

"That thought did occur to me as I started my day off in far more pleasant and comfortable surroundings," he replied, gazing at her steadily with his vibrant blue eyes, and his response made her laugh lightly.

Without taking her gaze off of him she dropped the quirt she was holding onto the floor near her booted feet and held out her right hand. The squat balding man, who had been standing quietly behind her, stepped forward, opened the small leather case and extracted a gleaming pair of silver shears, which he handed to her.

"Thank you, Zeke. You may go now," she said, enjoying the look of apprehension that had appeared in Illya's eyes when he saw the shears. The man nodded and left with the case.

Smiling faintly the woman reached out and took hold of the hem of Illya's white turtleneck and slowly began cutting the sweater in half up the front, and the young agent knew that the pleasantries were now over.

"Uh, thank you, Madam ….but I'm old enough to undress myself," he said dryly. Normally, having a beautiful woman removing his clothing would have been a pleasurable experience under other circumstances, but this was certainly not that type of situation.

She smiled at his attempt at humor but continued snipping away at the material. "But I'd so much rather do it for you," she replied with a wicked gleam in her dark eyes when she glanced at him. "It's so much more…exciting…this way, at least for me."

Somehow he didn't doubt that was true, as it was apparent that this elegant yet dangerous woman thrived on playing cat-and-mouse games with her prey. The question was: why?,…or more to the point, why with him?

"Who are you? And why exactly am I here?" he asked warily, wondering what she had in store for him when she finished what she was doing. He could feel the cold metal of the shears slowly sliding along his bare skin as she cut the material apart.

"I am Lady Barbara Ashley, and you are my guest for reasons you'll soon discover. Although we haven't previously met before, dearest Illya, perhaps you at least recognize my name?" She paused for a moment from her task, and her gaze bore into his with a challenging expression. She read the reaction she was hoping for in the UN.C.L.E. agent's startled look..

"I see _he_ has mentioned my name to you," she cooed, resuming her task.

When the shears reached the collar of the turtleneck, Illya forced himself not to flinch or show fear as the lethal-looking cutters glided upward along his throat. Nevertheless she sensed his unease at her actions and smiled at him again.

When she finished cutting the sweater she pushed the two halves wide apart, exposing his bare throat, chest, and stomach. Her breathing quickened: for some reason it had heightened her excitement to discover that her attractive captive wasn't wearing an undershirt like most men usually did.

She gazed for a moment at the smooth exposed flesh, then ran her free hand over his torso, feeling the well-toned, taut muscles under her palm and the leanness of his rib-cage and stomach. It was obvious that he worked out on a regular basis, giving him an athletic, catlike grace and agility.

She made a sigh of pleasure as she caressed and inspected him. "Such perfection. You have the most beautiful body and skin, I must say….deliciously masculine yet sensuous to the touch, like velvet."

Thoroughly repulsed by what she was doing and saying, but helpless to pull away from her exploring touch, Illya remained silent, knowing there was nothing he could do or say to make her stop.

As if reading his thoughts she raised the shears again. "Let's get the rest of this off of you," and she began cutting away the remnants of the sweater until his upper body was fully exposed and the fragments of the turtleneck lay in a pile on the cell floor near her booted feet.

When she'd finished, Barbara Ashley tossed the scissors onto that pile and again stared at Illya, now scrutinizing his long mane of streaked flaxen hair, electric-blue eyes, slim nose, and well-formed mouth and lips. His fair complexion was flawless and glowed with the vitality of youth and health. She had to admit he was far more striking and compelling in person than in the few grainy photos she'd seen of him; and she decided then and there that—despite her resentment of his presence in Solo's life—she would have him. And then afterward she would taunt Solo with the fact that she had bedded and enjoyed his precious partner right before she killed him.

She raised her left hand and stroked Illya's hair and face again. She could see how much he hated the petting, and reveled in her domination over him. Envisioning having him at her mercy in the bedroom as well, she tried to pull his face closer to hers. "Kiss me," she breathed huskily. "And if you agree to becoming my lover and do all that I ask...I shall let you live."

But Illya knew she was lying; and thoroughly appalled by her proximity and proposal, managed to jerk his face away.

" _Nyet!"_ he bit out in Russian. (phonetic for _Het_ , or No!)

She let go of him angrily, instantly incensed by his rejection and defiant response.

"I'm going to have you, eventually. Every… bit …of…you," she snarled, glaring at him.

"Doing that won't bring him back to you," he responded in a hard tone, his steady gaze clashing with her malevolent one.

She laughed harshly. "You don't understand, my sweet. I'm going to make him suffer for what he did to me by making _you_ suffer." She reached down and picked up her discarded riding crop, then straightened and swung it violently at Illya's face. Caught off guard, he cried out as it struck him across the mouth and side of his jaw, tearing flesh and drawing blood.

With a malevolent smile she then circled around him and began beating him in earnest, flogging him mercilessly until he finally passed out from pain and trauma.

* * *

Now, hanging in the pitch-blackness of the cold cell, his body bloody, ravaged and throbbing all over from the brutal whipping, Illya forced his thoughts to dwell not on the excruciating pain he was in but on Lady Barbara Ashley. Although he'd never met her, he had known her name immediately as both a high ranking THRUST official and a woman whom Napoleon Solo had once had the misfortune to become involved with as part of an assignment that had not included Illya. Although the two men usually worked as a team, on occasion Waverly would assign them separate tasks or missions to accomplish alone.

Illya had later learned that Solo's encounter with Lady Ashley had proven to be one of the more challenging of his career. Although the Russian had never learned all the details of what happened to his partner on that mission—only Alexander Waverly knew the full story—Illya had gleaned enough from Solo to understand that the woman was both ruthless and deranged, and that she'd become obsessed with the suave, dark-haired U.N.C.L.E. agent.

And because of it Illya now found himself not only in the hands of a high level THRUSH official, but an unwilling participant in some sort of twisted revenge plot she had against his partner and friend.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"Say he be **taken** , **rack'd** and **_torture_** d" ( _Henry V_ )

* * *

It was early Sunday morning when Lady Barbara Ashley returned to Illya's cell, accompanied by the two men who had helped abduct him. The interior of the cell was still cloaked in darkness and she paused a moment to flip a light switch on the outer wall, which illuminated the cubicle with diffused light.

Inside they found the youthful Russian—who had passed out again due to the excruciating pain he was in—limp and unresponsive. She had one of the men check his pulse and the dilation of his pupils to verify that he wasn't shamming.

Assured that the U.N.C.L.E. agent was unconscious and thereby harmless, she ordered her henchmen to take him down. The stockier man unshackled the captive's ankles and then handed the key ring to his larger companion, supporting Illya's dead weight while the other freed the manacles around the blond agent's raw and bloodied wrists.

"What are we ta do with 'im, M'Lady?" Zeke, the shorter men asked as his cohort hefted the unconscious Illya over his shoulder.

"Take him through the hidden tunnel to the old Coach House. I still have guests spending the weekend here, but none of them will venture out that far. I want him stripped, cleaned up, and then shackled face down to the bed you will find there. Do not leave him alone for an instant, do you understand!"

Both men nodded then left the cell with their charge.

As they moved away out of their mistress's sight and hearing the large man carrying the U.N.C.L.E. agent smiled slyly at his companion. " 'er ladyship din't say nothin' 'bout us 'avin' a bit o' sport with the boyo, did she? Why should she 'ave all the fun, eh?"

* * *

"Mr. Solo, here's the lab results on the blond hair that was included in the note." Beth Childers, the attractive brunette assistant to Waverly's counterpart in London, said as she handed him the report. "I think you will be a bit shocked," she commented as he took it from her.

Flashing her a quizzical glance he quickly scanned the report, then looked at it more carefully, thinking he hadn't read it correctly.

"It says the hair is not naturally blond and likely came from a woman," he said aloud, looking up at her in surprise. "Then it's not Illya's!"

"Apparently not," she agreed.

"Yet Illya is missing, and someone has sent me a note with a cryptic message and a lock of woman's hair that looks blond but isn't," the handsome agent mused.

"Mr. Solo, didn't the handwriting analysis come back saying that all indications are the note was written by a woman's hand and not a man's? Perhaps it's one in the same person," Beth offered thoughtfully. "As if she's daring you to figure it out by the clues."

"Or…to remember her?" Solo replied, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

 _Come one, Solo, THINK for Christ's sake!_ he admonished himself. Time was truly of the essence if he were to find his partner, preferably alive. Was there a woman—albeit a blond who wasn't truly a blond—from his past who hated him so much that she'd strike at him by harming Illya?

Then suddenly… it all fell into place.

"Oh, my god…" he muttered, staring aghast at the report in his hand.

"What? What's wrong, Mr. Solo"" Beth asked him, alarmed by the sudden change in his demeanor. Never would Beth Childers have believed she'd ever see the normally unflappable Napoleon Solo look so shaken.

"I'm pretty sure I know who has Illya," he said, looking up at her with a haunted expression. "Beth, get me a secure channel to Waverly right away."

* * *

Normally a good swimmer, Illya was drowning as he was pressed under murky water by unknown hands determined to keep him there. His instinct for survival kicked in and he came fully awake and began to struggle against those holding him down, but to no avail. Just as his oxygen-starved lungs began to fail him and he felt himself blacking out again, he was jerked upright and his head broke free of the suffocating fluid. He sputtered and gagged, and his eyes and the raw cuts on his body burned from exposure to the soapy water of the large metal tub.

Gasping desperately for air, his senses reeling from pain and near-drowning, Illya vaguely registered harsh male laughter as he was pushed down and held under once more.

Suddenly, however, his tormentors heard Barbara Ashley say in a frigid tone from behind them:

"That's enough, you cretins! Get him out of there and put him on the bed like you were told to do!"

Both men turned, seeing their irate mistress standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette, and they quickly pulled Illya up out of the water and dragged him, choking and coughing, across the room. There they threw him face down dripping wet onto the bare mattress and attempted to shackle him to it. But the youthful agent's training kicked in and he tried to fight them, putting up a valiant effort despite his weakened condition, until the larger of the men punched him hard in the kidneys with a balled fist, causing Illya to groan in agony at the paralyzing blow.

"There, that should do fer 'im," Darby, the bigger brute, muttered darkly, breathing heavily from the exertion.

Zeke, his cohort, nodded as he helped hold Illya down. "Ain't much to the lad but e's got a lot o' fight in 'im," he panted.

Having incapacitated their prisoner, the two men yanked the Russian's arms and legs apart and quickly manacled his wrists and ankles to the posts of the old bed.

Watching them from the doorway, Barbara Ashley ordered,"Go on, get out of here! I'll deal with you two later,"and her henchmen scrambled to comply, nervously hurrying past her as she entered the room.

Enjoying their fear of her, she laughed merrily as she crossed to stand over Illya, who lay racked with pain...although he was trying valiantly not to show how much.

"My men can be over-zealous at times, but I see they got you cleaned up nicely. Are you comfortable?" she asked facetiously, and took another drag of her cigarette.

"The bath was most refreshing, but I think I prefer the vertical position in the dungeon," he replied weakly.

She exhaled the cigarette smoke and gave a short laugh. "Such bravado!" She then sat on the edge of the creaky bed and Illya felt the mattress tip slightly under her added weight. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup artfully applied, and she was dressed in a tailored lavender pantsuit trimmed with a white silk neck scarf.

"I take it we are about to move on to Phase Two," he said tonelessly, wincing and clenching his jaw tight as she ran her free hand over his shredded back, taking pleasure in causing him more pain by touching the raw wounds. Adding to his discomfort was the fact that the rough bare mattress was rubbing just as painfully against the wounds on his chest.

She didn't respond to that immediately, but instead coolly swept her gaze over his naked and glistening body. "Well, I can certainly see why Napoleon thinks so highly of you. Yours is the kind of male beauty that captivates not only women, but men as well," she observed, adding as she fingered damp locks of his long white-gold hair, "And have you any idea, Illya dear, how many women would kill to have such beautiful naturally-shaded tresses like yours without the services of a salon?"

He knew that having him shackled like this to the bed and at her mercy was meant to humiliate and intimidate him, and that her comments were intended to embarrass him further, especially the sexual innuendo about Napoleon and himself. But he refused to be baited and said nothing.

Not getting the reaction she'd hoped for, Lady Ashley dropped her half-finished cigarette onto the wood floor and put it out with the toe of her white designer shoe. "I do so hate wasting them like that," she said in an odd tone and then reached up and untied the white neck scarf she was wearing.

Illya, spreadeagled face down on the mattress, chained and helpless, watched her actions with concealed apprehension, wondering if she planned to simply strangle him now... and then have her men leave his unclothed body in an alley near U.N.C.L.E.'s London headquarters. That this insane and vengeful woman had always planned to kill him, he had no doubt.

But Barbara Ashley had no intention of ending his life just yet. She reached over him and deftly used the scarf to gag him. "You shall be the silent partner in our little games this time," she told him, smoothing wet tangles of his bright hair back away from his face. "Now, lovely boy, do you remember that I told you I planned to enjoy every bit of you?" she whispered, leaning down close to his ear.

Illya had not seen her enter with any weapons nor did there appear to be any in the mostly unfurnished room. However, he got his answer as to what new method of torture she was about to inflict upon him when she said silkily, "I meant to say…I plan to enjoy every _bite_ of you…." And then she bit him, hard, on the soft flesh of his upper left arm, drawing blood.

* * *

"Mr. Solo, how can you be sure it's Barbara Ashley who is involved in Mr. Kuryakin's disappearance?" Waverly asked from the small screen monitor in a private office of the main Communications Center

"I can't be absolutely sure, of course, Sir, but …"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Beth Childers stuck her head in and said, "Please excuse me for interrupting, but a man has delivered another note for you Mr. Solo."

"Here, at London's U.N.C.L.E. headquarters?" Solo asked with raised eyebrows. "How did he know about this place, or where to find me?"

"He claims he is just a freelance hackie hired by a stranger to bring the note to this address. We've checked him out and his story seems accurate." She entered the room and handed Solo the sealed white note-card.

With some trepidation he took it, staring at it for a long moment. It was identical to the one he'd received at the pub.

Waverly, who had overheard the conversation, spoke sharply: "What does it say, Mr. Solo?"

The agent glanced uneasily up at Beth, who stood watching him with a worried expression, and then opened the small envelope and pulled out the folded paper inside. As he did so something fell out onto the polished table top in front of him.

"Ohh, Mr. Solo…." Beth said softly, staring with dismay at the object. Looking from it to Napoleon, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"What is it? What's happening there?!" Waverly's gruff voice demanded.

Clearing his throat Solo replied grimly, "Sir, another segment of blond hair came with this note. I , uh, have a feeling this one definitely is Illya's. It's matted with what appears to be…dried blood."

There was a brief silence as Waverly digested that disturbing news. "You probably are correct, but we will have the lab analyze that sample as well just to be sure. Is there anything written in this note?" he asked.

Solo looked at the paper in his hand again, his face ashen. "Yes. It says: _'You broke something of mine, and now I've broken something of yours."_


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

"I would not wish any **companion** in the world but you." ( _The Tempest_ )

* * *

"Mr. Solo, our people have located where Lady Ashley is at the present," Beth Childers told him as he and British-born U.N.C.L.E. agent Mark Slate entered the conference room. It was now Monday, and the 33-year-old Slate, who currently worked out of U.N.C.L.E. New York headquarters, had arrived in London at Waverly's direction to assist Solo in his search for Illya. Once the senior agent had convinced Waverly that Lady Ashley was the most likely candidate behind the cryptic notes and Illya's disappearance, his chief had dispatched Mark Slate to assist in the search and rescue effort for the missing Kuryakin. The British agent knew both Solo and Illya well, and had on occasion worked with them as a unit and individually, and Waverly had thus decided that he'd be a good choice to join with Solo for a number of reasons.

The two young men sat down at the conference table and listened intently as Beth apprised them of what was now known of Barbara Ashley's whereabouts and recent activities.

"She's apparently been entertaining several THRUST dignitaries over the past weekend at her vast estate in Warwickshire," the pretty brunette told them. "Many of her guests have now left, but a few o them are still there."

"I know the area fairly well," Mark Slate responded thoughtfully. "It's about a two hour drive from London." Known for his ingratiating grin and wry sense of humor, the wiry-built 5'10' agent had large intelligent blue eyes framed by a short cap of shaggy sandy-blond hair. He turned to Solo. "Napoleon, do you still think Lady Ashley has Illya, given so many THRUSH leaders are there? We know at least that THRUSH Command doesn't have him. They'd be gloating and goading us if they had captured him. He'd be quite a prize."

Solo nodded. "That's just the point, Mark. She may be one of the THRUSH elite, but Barbara Ashley has made this personal between _her and I_ by taking Illya and gloating and goading ME with those notes. Trust me, hiding Illya at her estate with so many of her fellow THRUSHes around would be something Barbara would take a perverse delight in. She's just using this gathering as a smoke screen. She knows our people here keep tabs on the whereabouts of UK THRUSH leaders, and a family gathering of their clan is not something we'd likely overlook. This is her way of hiding Illya in plain sight from us."

Beth Childers spoke up. "I agree, Mr. Slate. I've seen her dossier, and her Warwickshire estate is century's old, dating back to the Anglo-Saxon period. It likely has a dungeon, perhaps even an old Priest hole and escape tunnels. Her ancestorspledged open loyalty and support to the Protestant King Henry VIII and then later to his daughter Queen Elizabeth I when she came to power, but the Ashley's were secretly still practicing Catholics at the time. She could easily have Illya hidden there on the estate somewhere without her THRUSH colleagues ever knowing."

The interoffice phone rang and Beth answered it. When she replaced the receiver she stood. "Excuse me, please, but I'm needed on another matter," she apologized.

After she'd gone Mark Slate looked at Solo, who was rubbing a hand across his eyes. He looked tired and drawn and the British agent guessed he'd not slept much since Illya had disappeared.

"Napoleon, I understand you came to know Lady Ashley well during a past assignment. Mr. Waverly briefed me on what the notes have said and…uh…what came with them. What actually do they mean, and why did she take Illya and not just come after you directly?"

Solo's forlorn sable-eyed gaze met Slate's sympathetic pale blue one. "Because behind her beauty, title, and so-called refinement she's a soulless monster, Mark. Suffice it to say that emotional and physical torture is something Barbara Ashley excels at and thrives on. I learned that first hand two years ago." He paused and looked down at the table top. "Somehow I always knew that if she could, she'd hurt Illya to strike back at me," he added softly.

"Why?" Sate asked.

Solo sighed heavily and shifted in his chair. "As part of my assignment back then I set out to make her fall in love with me because of her access to THRUSH secrets. When she found out she'd been used by an U.N.C.L.E. agent and that I didn't love her, she swore then she'd make me pay someday. In her first note she mentions I stole something from her, in the second that I broke something of hers. What she is referring to, I think, is that I stole her affections as well as some valuable THRUSH secrets, and then I broke her heart when she found out the truth, that she'd just been the means to my ends." He paused and shrugged a little. "I'm amazed THRUSH didn't kill her later, but then I suspect she somehow managed to cover her tracks. Anyway, I looked upon my involvement with her as just an avenue to getting the job done, but Barbara looked upon how I'd used her as betrayal of the worst kind."

"So…she fell deeply in love with you, "Mark noted. "And later became the proverbially woman scorned hell-bent on revenge."

Solo nodded. "Unfortunately, even from the beginning she was obsessed with me in an unhealthy way. And it was then I realized how dangerous and depraved she truly was." he said, a shadow flitting across his handsome features.

"But why harm or kill Illya? He wasn't involved in that assignment, correct?"

Solo's expression darkened with rare emotion. "For no other reason than that he's my partner, really. You know as well as I do, Mark, that in our line of business we can't form deep or binding attachments to anyone, especially outsiders. But our partner is different because we place our life in his or her hands all the time; and in truth they are the only person in this dangerous business we can trust with both our lives and the type of secretive work that we do. Barbara Ashley is not just insane, she's insanely jealous. I now believe that she has figured out that by taking her rage out on Illya, by using him as a scapegoat for the wrongs she feels I have done her, she has found the perfect way to punish me without actually killing me…..and that's by torturing and killing Illya in my place. She knows I will have to live with the burden of that terrible knowledge for the rest of my life because it is not the same as losing him, or any partner, in the line of duty. She wants to ensure that I will always blame myself...that my callous betrayal and rejection of her resulted in my partner's horrific death at her hands." He looked bleakly at Slate. "And she _will_ make sure Illya's death is just that, Mark…horrific."

"Lady Ashley has to realize that by taunting you so blatantly with those notes as she has, once you figured out who had sent them you'd be coming for Illya" Mark noted.

Solo nodded. "I've no doubt that her intent is to make sure that I eventually find him...or what is left of him for me to find. So likely that taunting clue will be in her final farewell note to me, when it comes. Which is why we have to find a way onto that estate _now_ while Barbara is distracted with her weekend guests. It's our only hope that Illya might still be alive."

* * *

That next evening, Solo and Slate arrived in that region of Warwickshire where Lady Barbara Ashley's estate and manor house were located. The two U.N.C.L.E. agents knew that actually getting onto the grounds would be difficult, especially with some THRUSH leaders still there, as the entire property would be heavily guarded by armed patrols and loaded with surveillance cameras all around the parameters.

But Beth Childers had given them the possible answer to this dilemma of how to best get onto the grounds without detection.

"Our archivists worked throughout the day until they found what you needed," she was pleased to tell the two agents during their briefing before they left for Warwickshire. "As I suspected, Lady Ashley's property has old tunnels leading off the estate. Fortunately, in the Victorian era an ancestor of hers had them mapped for historical preservation and we have found those old records!"

"Is it possible the tunnels have since been blocked or filled in?" Solo asked, and Beth considered that.

"Certainly a good point, but you see, Mr. Solo, English laws which govern historic sites and estates require the owners to get special writs to change anything about their properties. In this century, other than some roof repairs, stone masonry work or updates of utilities and plumbing, Lady Ashley's estate has pretty much remained the same. Of course, anything is possible, even the fact she might have secretly had them filled in…but the tunnels are likely still there, if a bit overgrown and rat-infested."

"Oh, that sounds like wondrous fun," Slate had muttered under his breath, envisioning that image in his head.

Beth had smiled and handed them the maps.

* * *

It was almost dusk when Solo pulled the small rental car off onto the shoulder of the winding country road. "Think this is it?" he asked his companion.

In the fading light Mark Slate scrutinized the map in his hand again, then looked over toward the old stone spring house sitting a few yards away. A faded "No Trespassing" sign was hanging crookedly on its weathered door. He nodded and glanced back over at Solo. "It fits the location on the map."

"Then let's check it out," Solo replied, shutting off the motor and climbing out of the driver's side. Slate folded the map, tucked it into a pocket of his dark leather jacket, and got out and followed Solo to the small building.

Both men looked around to be sure this back-country road was deserted, and then Slate reached out and gave a small shove to the door. To their surprise it swung open with a rusty groan.

"Why wasn't it locked," Mark commented, and as the two men cautiously stepped inside the small building, Solo bent down and picked up something.

"Here's why. The bolt seems to have rusted or broken off. Likely the place hasn't been visited in years, might even be forgotten." He pointed. "Look, there's a lot of dust build-up on the floorboards but no footprints, just marks from a small animal, maybe a rodent. I don't think anyone's been here for a long time."

"It's fairly isolated out here anyway," Slate murmured in agreement, walking about and checking the walls and ceiling for any signs of surveillance equipment but finding none.

Solo scanned the floor, trying to spot a trapdoor. "I hope this place wasn't built on top of the tunnel entrance and effectively sealed it forever," he worried.

Mark, who was now leaning over the four-foot-high stone well wall and peering down into the darkness, said over his shoulder, "I have an idea the entrance is down there."

Napoleon joined him and looked down, catching a glint of metal against the gloom. "Is that a ladder?"

"I think so. I'll go grab the torches," Slate replied, returning to their rental car for flashlights and a bag carrying other items they might need. He handed one of the lights to Solo and the two agents shone them down the well opening.

"Yup, it's definitely a ladder," Solo noted. "And although the metal looks a bit rusty hopefully it will still hold us."

"We won't know that unless we go down there," Mark observed, testing the mortared stones of the well rim. "So far these seem solid enough," he said. "Shall I go first then?"

Solo nodded. Even though the two men were close in height, Slate was the lightest and most agile due to his wiry build.

From the knapsack he took out two black knit caps to match the dark clothing both men were wearing, and each put one on, which created a *cat burglar* image.

Then Slate sat on the edge of the well wall, and with a thumbs up to Solo swung his long legs up and over and carefully lowered himself into the dark hole until his booted feet touched the top rungs of the ladder. Still gripping the edge of the well rim with his hands, he glanced up at Napoleon and told him, "It feels fairly secure. I've tried to move it with my feet but it won't budge and I think it might be bolted to the wall of the well. Let me go down a little further just to be sure, though."

His covered head slowly disappeared deeper into the hole, and then Solo heard him exclaim with surprise, "Bloody hell!"


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

" **_rescue_** d the black prince, that young mars of men" ( _Richard III)_

* * *

"Mark? Whjat's wrong? Are you all right?" Solo called down anxiously into the descending gloom of the well.

"What? No, Mate, I'm fine," Slate responded, his voice sounding hollow. "It just surprised me to touch bottom so fast. It's actually rather shallow. Blimey, I had visions of it being an endless abyss, like in the flicks when someone drops a stone down a well and it takes forever to hear the echoing _kerplunk_ or _splash_!"

Solo gave a short relieved laugh and replied, "Okay, then , I'm coming down."

Within minutes he had joined Mark on the floor of the well, or what they decided was a phony well built long ago to camouflage the old escape tunnel entrance, a cob-webbed arched opening.

With their flashlights showing them the way they entered the narrow corridor. As Beth Childers had speculated, it was overgrown in some areas, and they used small hatchets from Mark's bag to easily hack their way through those obstructions and clear them. On occasion they came upon pockets of standing water, but most of those were only ankle deep or so. It was slow going but to Mark's vast relief they hardly encountered any rats or other wildlife in the tunnel other than a few spider webs.

"Where do you think we are under the estate?" Solo whispered to Slate, who reached into his jacket and pulled out the map. In the light of his torch he studied it, looked at his watch, and whispered back, "Well, by calculating how long it's taken us to get this far in comparison to the map's survey, I think we are halfway to the Manor House. Once there we should be coming out into the old dungeon area."

"All right, let's press on then," Solo murmured, taking the lead.

By the time they reached their destination both men were dirty and sweat soaked, but gratified to finally find themselves facing a small stone door with a rusted iron ring pull.

"This has to be it," Mark murmured, checking the map again. Somewhere nearby they could hear the muted sound of water dripping.

He bent down and from his black bag took out a portable unit that would amplifier any sounds from the other side of the door and wall area. He placed an ear piece into his right ear and turned the unit on, then placed it against the old stone wall, listening carefully before moving it to the door.

After a few minutes he looked up at Solo and shook his head. "Nothing. Not a sound." They did not want to open the door and find themselves greeted by THRUSH guards, and the fact that Mark had not picked up any sounds of conversation or movement was a good sign.

"Hold my light while I try the door," Solo told him. He then gripped the heavy ring with both hands and gave it a tug. It did not budge the door, and he tried again, pulling harder. To both men's relief the door moved slightly, and Solo tugged once more, opening it enough to see what lay on the other side yet at the same time allowing them to close it immediately if there appeared to be any danger.

With their ears they listened intently for voices or movement, but were only greeted by a heavy silence that was occasionally broken by the slow plops of dripping water.

The two agents exchanged glances, and Solo nodded and made a forward motion with his hand. Mark handed the flashlight back to him and in unison they pulled out their U.N.C.L.E. Specials.

Solo shoved the door open more fully and then he and Slate carefully entered into what appeared to be a small room on the other side. They paused, still hearing no indication of anyone being about, and Slate whispered, "I think we're in one of the old cells."

Leaving Mark's knapsack hidden in the tunnel, they began to explore the area, finding that indeed they were in the original dungeon of the ancient manor house.

All of the cells, like the one they came out in, were empty and without doors, those having been removed long ago.

Initially they found no signs of Illya until they were at the far end of the dungeon area. Then, in a cell with wrist manacles hanging from the ceiling, they discovered something.

"These are Illya's things," Solo muttered, bending down to examine shoes and clothing that had been discarded in a careless pile in one corner. He picked up a remnant of what had been the Russian's white turtleneck sweater, bleakly wondering why it was in this condition and, worse yet, what it might signify for his partner.

Mark touched his arm, whispering, "There's something else," and when Solo turned ans stood the British agent pointed toward another section of the floor with the beam of his light. On the gray stones beneath the manacles were a number of dried blood spatters.

They stared at them in somber silence, absorbing the implication of the discovery, and then Solo finally said, "It's not enough blood to indicate he bled to death or they killed him here. So where is he?"

Slate looked about, then pulled out the map again and studied it intently, then pointed to a spot on the diagram:

"Napoleon, there's another tunnel down here somewhere, one that leads from this dungeon and goes further into the heart of the estate. Let's assume they moved Illya to a different location on the grounds, farther away from Barbara's guests. That could mean she is waiting for the last of them to leave before she finishes him off. And we know that so far no other notecard has arrived for you at London headquarters, which could mean that Illya isn't dead yet." He tapped the map. "I say we find that tunnel and follow it."

"Clever Brit! I agree. Lead on!" Solo replied, flashing him a grateful smile as he felt a spark of renewed hope that Mark was right and Illya might still be alive.

* * *

When they found the hidden door to this tunnel it appeared that it had been used recently. Although closed and camouflaged as part of the stone wall of the dungeon, arcing scuff marks on the dirty ancient floor in front of it indicated the location of the tunnel's secret entrance.

They found this tunnel cleared of debris and water-free and thus made their way through the narrow passage more swiftly. Within a short time they came to its end, and found themselves looking upward at a wooden trapdoor.

Solo handed Slate his flashlight again, holstered his gun to free his hands, and crept up the short flight of stairs leading to the trapdoor.

The other agent handed him up the amplifying device from the black bag, which they had retrieved, and Napoleon took it and listened at the trapdoor for several moments, then slowly inched the panel open and peered out. To his surprise he found himself looking at an empty horse stall. He quietly closed the trapdoor and leaned down and whispered to Mark, "It leads into a horse barn or something like that."

Solo handed the amplifier back to the Brit and opened the trapdoor again and climbed out stealthily, gun in hand, with Slate following on his heels. Dropping low they surveyed their surroundings. No one was on this level of the stables but they could hear someone on the floor above them sneeze violently a few times and then utter an oath of annoyance.

Using silent hand gestures once more the agents made their way to a set of plain wooden stairs that led to the upper level. With Slate in the lead now, they crept up the stairs to the top landing. As the lanky agent peered around the stair banister he saw a balding middle-aged man sitting in a chair by a closed door, reading a newspaper. It was apparent the man was guarding someone or something on the other side of that door.

Stepping boldly out into view Mark Slate said, "Hello there, Mate," and as the startled guard looked up and over at him the U.N.C.L.E. agent deftly shot him with a tranquilizer dart.

The man toppled heavily to the floor and Slate ran over to him and dragged him away from the door as Solo tried the handle. It was locked, and he motioned for Mark to search the unconscious guard for the key, which he found and gave to Napoleon.

When the senior agent opened the door he immediately spotted in the near-empty room an old iron bed...and lying on it was a figure shrouded from his view by a large brown blanket.

With a pounding heart Napoleon slowly walked forward.

* * *

With Mark now on guard at the doorway should anyone come along, Solo approached the bed. It was obvious that a body lay there, covered by what appeared to be an old horse blanket. Suddenly there was some movement and Solo could hear low mumbling in a language he recognized but seldom heard: Russian.

Bracing himself, he reached down and drew back the covering.

"Oh, Christ..." he said in a stricken tone, staring down at Illya. He had known it would be bad, but not this bad.

Watching Solo from his vigil by the door, Mark asked in an anxious whisper, "Is it Illya?" When the other agent did not answer, but stood silently rooted to the spot, he ran over to the bedside.

"Oh, bloody hell!" he muttered in shocked disbelief.

Illya lay before them, spread-eagled face down and chained to the bedposts. He was unclothed and his entire body—arms, torso, and legs—was ravaged by bloody welts. By the raw state of some of his wounds it was apparent he'd been whipped recently, not once but several time.

But even worse had been done to him.

"Are, are those…cigarette burns and bite marks as well?" Mark asked incredulously, feeling the bile rise in his throat. In all his experience he'd never seen anyone so brutalized and it was apparent some of the lesions had become infected.

Solo nodded mutely, still unable to speak for the moment as he tried to gain control of his despair and rage, knowing he had to think and act clearly right now for Illya's sake.

The youthful agent had his face turned away from them, his fine features obscured by the long flaxen hair now sweat-soaked and matted. H e was shivering uncontrollably, muttering under his breath, and the few Russian words they caught were incoherent.

"Help me get him free," Solo finally said hoarsely. "At least he's still alive."

Mark looked around and spotted a silver key across the room laying atop an old table, the only other piece of furniture in the room. He quickly went back to check the outer area and then retrieved the key and handed it to Solo.

As the senior agent began to undo Illya's wrist shackles the young man jerked violently and snarled in Russian, " _Не трогайте меня!_ _"_ (Don't touch me!)

"Illya, you're safe now. It's Napoleon," Solo assured him soothingly, leaning over him so his partner could see who was speaking to him. Glazed blue eyes slid upward and Solo saw a flicker of recognition in their pain-filled depths.

" _Я,...я знал что Вы найдете меня_." ("I...I knew….that you would find me.") He said it in Russian and so faintly that Solo barely caught the words.

"Mark Slate is with me, too. We are going to get you out of here now," he told him, handing the key back to Mark so he could undo the leg shackles.

Illya nodded slightly to indicate he understood and momentarily closed his eyes; and when he opened them again Solo saw that the thick golden lashes were moist with tears. In the years he'd known the Russian, who was a master at hiding his emotions, he'd never seen him weep. To find him now so vulnerable and broken ripped Solo apart inside.

The British agent finished freeing Illya's lower limbs and the two men gently helped their friend sit up on the edge of the bed. Closing his eyes again Illya moaned softly at each movement, and they could see more clearly the damage done to his face and the numerous flogging injuries inflicted on his chest and arms as well.

Mark exchanged pitying looks with Solo, then hurried back to the doorway and peered out

"It's still quiet and clear," he said, returning to Napoleon and Illya.

Solo leaned down and stared into the young Russian's chalky face. "We need to get out of here now, Illya," he said in a low tone. "I know you won't like this, but one of us will carry you."

Illya's electric blue eyes flew open and he looked proudly at his partner and rasped in accented English this time, "I can try to walk, Napoleon. Just help me up."

The two other men could tell he was seriously ill with fever and worse, and they exchanged doubtful looks; but seeing the determination in Illya's expression Mark offered, "We can get his shoes back in the dungeon if he can make it that far. He'll need them for the main tunnel."

Reluctantly Solo agreed and they assisted Illya to his feet. While Slate steadied the slim Russian Solo wrapped the horse blanket around his body to cover his nakedness and to keep him warm. He knew its rough weave had to add to Illya's pain, but it was all they had at the moment to cover him with adequately.

Allowing Illya a few moments to gain some equilibrium, Solo frowned and asked him, "When was the last time you ate or drank anything?"

Looking disoriented, Kuryakin thought for a moment. "Saturday…morning," he mumbled. "What day is this?"

The other two men exchanged appalled looks. "It's Tuesday evening, Illya," Mark told him gently. Like Solo he'd noticed immediately how dehydrated and emaciated the young man appeared. "We really need to go now," he said to Solo, knowing as did the other agent that they had to get Illya to a hospital immediately.

"I'm…I'm ready now," Kuryakin said determinedly, and valiantly took a few faltering steps forward…before passing out.

His friends caught him before he hit the floor. "Such a stubborn Russian," Napoleon muttered, shaking his head. But he knew his partner well and the fierce pride and independent streak the youthful agent had.

"I'll carry him," Mark offered and Solo nodded curtly, agreeing only because if Barbara Ashley appeared at any time while they were escaping with Illya, he wanted to be the one to confront her without being encumbered with his unconscious partner's dead weight.

The wiry Brit slipped his arms under Illya's knees and shoulders, and carefully lifted him, not surprised that the blond agent felt as light as he looked right now.

Solo turned back toward the bed and with a sardonic expression withdrew a folded paper out of his pants pocket and tossed it onto the blood-stained mattress. He then pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. Special and led the way back down the stairs to the hidden trapdoor and the tunnel.

* * *

By early the next morning the last of Barbara Ashley's THRUSH house guests had finally departed, and soon thereafter she returned to the Coach House to continue her pleasurable abuse of Illya. Instead she found Zeke drugged and bound and the young U.N.C.L.E. agent gone.

For a long moment she stood staring at the now-vacant blood-stained mattress and discarded manacles, and then with a hand shaking from both rage and fear she reached down and picked up the note that Solo had left on the bed the night before.

On the outside was a quote she recognized from Shakespeare's play, _Richard III_ : " ** _vengeance_** is in my heart, **death** in my hand"

Inside the note was written in a bold masculine scrawl:

 _I have reclaimed what is mine. Sleep with the lights on, my lady, because I will be lurking somewhere in the shadows. NS_


	7. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

"Now, **_justice_** on the doers!" ( _All's Well That Ends Well_ )

* * *

Napoleon Solo lounged comfortably in a colorful striped cabana chair, the fresh sea breeze gently ruffling his dark hair. He looked up at the brilliant blue sky and squinted briefly through his Foster Grants at the sun, savoring its warmth on his face. It was perfect weather and he could not recall the last time he'd felt this kind of inner peace.

Yawning, he glanced around at his three companions, seeing they were equally relaxed and enjoying the day. U.N.C.L.E. agents Mark Slate and his partner April Dancer had flown in the night before to join Napoleon and Illya on a holiday in the Virgin Islands. All three young men were dressed in dark bathing trunks, with Slate and Solo sporting equally colorful beach shirts while Illya had on a simple white tee.

The 26-year-old April Dancer looked fetching in a butter-yellow bikini that drew admiring glances from her companions as well as other men nearby who were walking or lounging on the white sand beach. The sea breezes playfully lifted strands of her shoulder-length dark auburn hair about her lovely face, which was partly shaded by the wide-brimmed sunhat she wore. She and Mark Slate were reading magazines while Illya had been lightly dozing, stretched out in a cabana lounge chair.

Movement from his partner caught Solo's attention as Illya stretched then got up. "I think I'll go for a swim," he announced to his friends, stripping off his t-shirt and dropping it onto his chaise. He swept his hands up through his mane of golden hair then stretched again, savoring the feel of the sun and sea breeze on his face and body.

The three other agents nodded and smiled at him as he lithely headed down the beach toward the ocean water.

"He looks just fabulous," April Dancer breathed, watching the Russian with open admiration. "One would never guess how ill he's been."

Mark Slate glanced up from his magazine again and peered over the top of his sunglasses toward Illya's retreating form. "Yes, he definitely seems to have recovered from his ordeal," he agreed.

"Napoleon, the U.N.C.L.E. doctors do feel he will be okay, don't they?" April asked worriedy, still staring after Illya. "When I visited him in London after you and Mark rescued him, he looked so terrible. It was heartbreaking."

Watching April from behind his dark sunglasses, Solo caught something in her large brown eyes as she watched Illya's retreating form: for just a moment April had uncharacteristically let her guard down and allowed him to pick up on something he'd never realized or suspected before—and he was both touched and amused by this sudden new insight.

The beautiful U.N.C.L.E. agent was in love with his partner!

He could see that by her soft expression as she gazed toward the Russian and by the depth of the worry in her tone. And he caught a flash of something else as well just as surprising: jealousy.

Solo smiled reassuringly at the girl. "To answer your question…physically, as you can see for yourself, April, he's all healed. Emotionally, well, he's still a little raw, I think, although he hides it well. But he'll be all right. Illya has reserves of inner strength that frankly astound me at times."

"He's an amazing bloke," Mark nodded in agreement as he turned another page of his magazine.

Seeing April frown a little Napoleon turned his head again and glanced down the beach toward his partner, who was bent over, petting a large golden retriever. The animal's owner, a shapely pink-bikini clad girl with a mass of blonde curls stood laughing and talking to him. Illya's own blond hair, streaked and bleached even lighter from the past several days' exposure to the Caribbean sun, gleamed like a beacon in the daylight, and his now-fully healed athletic body looked fit and glowing as well.

 _Ah,_ Solo thought with amusement, watching the pretty girl flirt with his partner… _that explains April's jealousy just now_.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, which the Foster Grants hid from April, Solo turned back to her and said innocently, "Likely that's another young lady who has mistaken Illya for one of the cabana boys employed here. It's not the first time it's happened," he chuckled. "He's become quite popular."

Again he caught the flare of jealousy in April's large expressive brown eyes, but she merely responded in a controlled clipped tone "Oh, really," then took a sip of her iced tea.

Although she made an effort to appear indifferent to what Napoleon had just told her, April found that she was inexplicably annoyed by the scene on the beach and Solo's observation. Deciding to distract herself by sharing with her companions some news she'd brought she reached down and plucked up her yellow straw handbag, opened it, and pulled out a folded newspaper article.

"I have something of great interest to share with you boys," she told Solo and Mark Slate. Both young men looked at her curiously.

"What's it about, Luv?" Slate queried.

April merely smiled at him and opened the article.

"It's dated two days ago, from the London Times," she told them. "And it says that…. ' _On Monday_ _the mutilated remains of Lady_ _Barbara Ashley of Warwickshire washed up on Maui's south shore, where she'd gone on holiday. She had been reported missing from her yacht, The Queen of the Sea, three days before.'_ Here April paused, scanning the article. "Now, here's the best part. ' _Hawaiian officials have ruled her death the result of foul play.'"_ April made a face and said tartly, "Fitting, don't you think, for the Queen of Playing Foul?"

Mark Slate chortled at her acerbic witticism while Napoleon Solo, who had been listened intently, said nothing.

Knowing she had their undivided attention, April continued: "Mmm, anyway, it says that ' _although the body was badly mutilated due to multiple shark bites, some of her limbs were intact and marks on the remains of a wrists and an ankle indicate she had been bound, and was possibly even alive, when placed in the shark infested waters_.'" April looked up at them and made a slight face. "Ohhh, really, it sounds so gruesome when it's put that way, doesn't it? Imagine being eaten alive by sharks while you are bound and helpless."

"Do they indicate who they think might have killed her…aside from the sharks?" Solo asked, his expression inscrutable behind the sunglasses.

April shooed a fly away from her face and shook her head, looking at the article again. "The rest of the story goes on about Barbara Ashley's family background, her wealth…..boring stuff, really." She folded the article and placed it back in her handbag.

"I'm surprised Waverly didn't call to tell me about her death," Solo murmured.

"I told him that since I was coming here I'd be more than delighted to break the happy news," April responded with a broad grin. "I must say, Napoleon, you've taken it rather calmly, given how much you hated the woman. I would say that someone has done you and Illya a very great favor."

"Er, Napoleon… was it …did you….?" Mark Slate began, staring at the other agent. Like April, he found Solo's reaction, or lack of it, to the news of Barbara Ashley's gruesome demise a little odd

Solo held up his hands in protest. "Oh, no, I had nothing to do with that, although of course I am not sorry to hear she's got what she deserves. Besides, Illya and I have been here for well over a week. Waverly assigned me the task of convincing him to take this vacation before he goes back out in the field, and to keep a close eye on him. I've been an undercover baby sitter, as it were," he smiled. Then he grew serious again. "But I won't deny that when Illya and I returned to the States I had planned to ask Waverly to let me go after Barbara Ashley. I had warned her I'd be coming for her at some point."

"Really, Mark!" April said, looking over at her partner with mild exasperation. "Killing someone in that manner is not Napoleon's style, and you know it. But I am sure he is most grateful that he was spared the trouble."

"Yes, of course, I do apologize, Napoleon…and I can't say that I'm sorry she met a bad ending, regardless of who knocked her off," the British agent replied. "Frankly, if I'd had the chance, I'd have done the same. Kill her that is, but by a more direct means, of course."

"Actually, I personally feel it was most fitting how she met her end given what she'd done to Illya and….oh, dear, look there, the poor boy is now inundated with admirers!" April noted, brushing long strands of her wind blown hair out of her face again as she peered toward the beach where Illya was now surrounded by a half dozen bathing beauties, two of whom kept touching his fair hair. "Really! I must say the women down here are certainly forward," she said primly, and there was no mistaking the annoyance in her tone.

Following her gaze again and seeing his partner's new dilemma, Solo laughed and started to rise, "He does look a little besieged. I guess I'll go bail him out of _those_ shark infested waters."

Mark Slate guffawed loudly at that but April jumped up and waved Solo back into his seat.

"Boys, don't you know it's sometimes best to send a woman to do a man's job?" she told them with a wicked grin, kicking off her yellow flip-flops. "Oh, and by the way, I'd like to be the one to tell Illya of Barbara Ashley's karmic comeuppance," she added, and with a wink she took off down the beach toward the growing bevy of female admirers clustered around Illya.

Something in her words and demeanor triggered another startling revelation in Solo's mind, and he turned back to Slate. "Mark, have you and April been on assignment lately?" he asked.

Slate immediately saw where Solo was going with the question, and he slipped off his sunglasses, giving the other agent an odd look. "Nooo, for the past several days I've been doing routine surveillance and catching up on reports because I was told April had been sent off on a special hush-hush assignment at…Waverly's….request…." he replied thoughtfully.

"A secret assignment at Waverly's request?" Solo repeated, his mind racing. "And you don't know where she went?"

Mark shook his head, and the two men stared at each another, and then both turned to watch the lissome April Dancer as she plowed into the circle of women surrounding the object of her own secret affection.

"Well, I'll be damned," Solo and Slate said in unison.

 _FINIS_

* * *

 _Hello, and thank you for reading this story! I hope you enjoyed it and will express that in a favorable review or by looking forward to future stories. I do have another one that I will be posting sometime in the near future after I have a chance to tweak it a bit more. If you are also a writer, you know how that goes! Best regards, *April*_


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